Next Stop
by mrwriter1701
Summary: A mugger runs onto a subway train, and finds that it's slightly more than he wanted...written for a Stephen King short story challenge


Written for Stephen challenge for a short story.

**NEXT STOP...**

**By Claus Holm**

The air pumped in and out of his lungs. The sound of his feet hitting the pavement was fast, rhythmic, controlled. He faintly sensed the shouts behind him, the two men running after him was ordering him to stop. At least, that was what he believed they said. The blood roaring in his ears prevented him from hearing almost anything that was not within his body.

He saw the entrance to a subway station coming up ahead. He took a sharp right turn, and went in though the entrance. He felt the hot air from below blowing on his face.

He ran down the stairs, almost slipped on the slippery steps, but regained his balance. Above him, he heard one of the men fall, and he grinned. He would escape. He _knew _it

The stairs ended, and he came to the large, dome-like lobby. It seemed almost deserted, except for an old woman, slowly walking across the floor, a cane in her hand.

In his mind, he calculated the route to the tunnels below him, saw that he would pass just by the old woman, and decided to add a little extra to this evenings winnings.

He rushed towards the old woman. At the last second, she looked up and saw him coming, but she did not have the time to react.

He slammed into her, knocking her to the floor. She screamed, but not out of fear. It was more like anger, or frustration.

He grabbed her purse and tried to yank it from her arm. She held on.

He looked at her, the rage boiling within him.

"Let it go, you old bitch!", he snarled at her, and she hit him with the cane. The pain was sharp and instant. He looked her in the eyes, and saw no sign that she would give it up. Only determination.

He kicked her in the face, broke her glasses, her teeth shattering against his boots. She screamed.

The purse fell out of her hand, and he grabbed it. Behind him, he heard his pursuers come down the last steps, and he ran towards the tunnels. Behind him, the screaming stopped. He looked briefly over his shoulder, and saw one of the pursuers stop by the old woman. That gave him the extra time, he needed to get past the ticket machine.

The sound of the train approaching the station was deafening. The rush of air from the tunnel felt cool on his hot face, as he hurried down the escalator.

He rushed forward to the edge of the walkway, seeing the train come towards him, brakes sounding.

The train came to a stop, and he threw a quick look behind. No sign of them yet.

The doors opened, and he stepped in. The car was empty, but then, it WAS late in the evening.

He leaned out of the door, and saw the two policemen on the way across the upper walkway. They looked around with flustered looks on their faces.

He laughed. They heard him, but at the same time the doors began to close. He waved at them.

One of them raised the walkie-talkie, he carried, and spoke into it. The other looked after the train, trying to catch the number and destination.

He knew, that they would never catch him. He would wait three or four stops, get of and change train. They would have to post men on every station throughout the city to get him - and even then, he would still evade them. He just _knew_.

He sat down in a window seat, and looked at the lights, rushing by in the dark tunnel.

He opened the purse, he had taken from the old woman in the lobby, and started going through the various compartments.

_"Handkerchief. Keys. A bottle of pills, hmmm... crap, nothing fancy. Just heart medicine. £ 30 and some change...not much. Why the hell was she fighting so hard for a few pills and 30 pounds?"_

He threw the purse out of the window. It vanished in the darkness.

The train slowed down, turned a corner, and entered a new station. He looked up at the chart on the wall. Not yet, a few more stations. No sense in him walking more than necessary.

The train stopped, and the doors opened. A man came in, and sat down close to the door.

He looked at the man. Something was odd about him. He looked normal enough - wearing a suit and tie, a black overcoat and a briefcase in the hand. You could see thousands like him every day in the subway. But somehow he was different. He did not seem to look at anything - only more so, his eyes did not seem to focus on anything at all.

_"He is probably deeply stoned. No sense thinking about it."_

Yet somehow...he felt there was a sense thinking about it.

The train had begun to move, but this time it stopped almost immediately at a new station.

Two more people entered the car. A young blond woman, and a man in spandex bike attire, complete with a mountain bike.

And they both had the same unfocused look.

This worried him a little, but he felt the £ 30 in his pocket, along with his other earnings from the night, about £ 100 all together. This had been a fairly good night. He would go home, buy a burger and rent a movie. So what if the people on the subway were weird tonight? They did not bother him. And if they TRIED to bother him...

_"I'll kick their ass so hard, they'll feel it for a year!"_, he muttered to himself.

The train began to move again. The stations lights disappeared behind them.

The woman had chosen a seat across from him. The man and the bike stood at the very end of the car, leaning on the handles in the wall.

He looked at the bike. Something was wrong with the bike, too. It seemed...mangled, somehow, the wheels not completely round anymore. Actually, they looked like...they had been hit by a car.

He glanced at the biker himself. He had a bloodstain on his shorts, and his helmet had scratches across the forehead.

_"Maybe he was in an accident. That WOULD explain why an obvious bike-nerd would take the subway home. His bike was busted, and now he has to carry it home."_

The woman seemed to stare at him. He looked at her. She held her gaze.

"What?", he asked.

"Nothing." The voice was low, almost beyond hearing in the noise from the train.

"You were staring at me, so obviously, something is on your mind. Do you want any trouble?"

"No. No trouble." Again the low voice.

"Speak up!"

"No trouble." A little louder this time.

She never focused on him, he discovered. Just sat with her lifeless eyes staring into nothing, and she just happened to look in the direction, he was sitting.

He was getting decidedly uncomfortable. But there were only two stops to go. He would get up, take a last look at the strange people in the car, and be out of there.

He began shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

The man in the suit had turned his head towards the woman, when they had talked. Now, he looked at him. And slowly, carefully, the man turned his back to it starting position, and continued staring out of the window - into the darkness.

The train slowed again. And suddenly he had an idea. He would get off here. Right now. He could walk the last few hundred meters to the next station.

He stood up, took a step towards the door

They all looked at him. They turned their heads as on que, and looked at him with those empty eyes.

He froze. A chill crawled up his spine.

The train stopped. This was a large station. He saw the sign "PICADILLY CIRCUS" flashing by the window. He could see hundreds of faces outside the window, waiting for their train on the platform.

He shook himself free of the cold feeling he felt creeping over him, and moved towards the door.

The doors opened...and people started flowing in like a tidal wave.

Hundreds of people streamed in through the small opening - and the flow pushed him back.

He fought helplessly against the huge mass of flesh, that pushed and shoved him, and finally ended him pressed up against the wall of the car - cornered by a man in leather jacket, hardly more than a boy and a little girl about 6 or 7. Then he got a clear look at the boy, whose chest was covered in blood, a knife still sticking out like a pointing finger - and the little girl...

_"Oh my god the face... her face its NOT THERE ANY MORE!"_

whose face was covered in scratches and bruises to a degree where you could hardly call it a face any longer.

He thought incoherently:

_"Blood in the hair... her mamma's gonna have to wash her hair because she's got blood in it."_

And then he saw a face he recognised. An old woman in a brown dress, her hair a tangle of grey.

In his mind, he saw an image of the woman, as she fell to the marble floor in the station. Her shouts echoing in the large lobby, and then she had clawed at her chest...and then the shouts had stopped.

She approached him. Her eyes were not empty, as the woman's had been. They were full of rage.

"You! I know you! Why did you have to take my purse?"

He opened his mouth to answer - he did not know what to say, but he wanted to say SOMETHING - when the door at the end of the car opened, and a ticket collector entered.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. May I see your tickets, please?" He sounded normal, even casual.

He pushed his way passed the little girl, shoved the old woman aside. He tried to get to the conductor, but every person in the car seemed to be in the way - only now, they seemed to be aware of their surroundings. Their eyes had focused. On him. There was even talking and whispering. No laughter, though.

The man, who had first entered the car - the man in the suit - was suddenly in front of him.

"So, what got you, Sonny? Me - a stroke. Nice, clean, effective!"

He smiled. No joy, just teeth.

He shoved the man in the suit aside as well, and finally reached the ticket collector.

"Please", he yelled, grabbing hold of the conductors uniformed sleeve, "Help me! They are all dead!"

The ticket collector looked mildly amused. "And you are not, Sir?"

"No...of course not! Look at me! I move, I talk! I'm alive!"

The ticket collector made a gesture, that encompassed the entire car.

"All here can move and talk. And they are all dead. Now, what was your name again, Sir?"

"Rick. Rick Johnson"

The ticket collector lifted his walkie-talkie to his mouth.

"Central? We got a Rick Johnson here, says he's on the wrong train."

The sound of static came from the walkie-talkie, and then:

_**"We got no Rick Johnson on the list for tonight. Are you sure? How did he get on?"**_

"I don't know. I have only just arrived myself."

"I just got on at Baker Street! I'm not dead!"

_**"I'm sorry, what was that"**_

"He's just making trouble. Look, young man, may I see your ticket?"

Rick Johnson shoved his hands in his pockets. He looked defiantly at the ticket collector.

"I don't have a ticket. I guess, you'll have to kick me off the train, then!"

The ticket collector reached for him. His hands vas incredibly strong, as they gripped the front of Rick's jacket, and reached for his inner pocket.

It came out with three £ 10 notes.

"What are you talking about? It's right here?"

The ticket collector pulled out his small pliers, and made a small hole in the notes. Then he handed them back to Rick. He smiled, a broad smile, full of teeth. Rick thought they seemed awfully sharp.

"There you are. Now, just sit back and enjoy the ride!"

Rick sank down in an aisle seat, and faintly, he heard the ticket collector's voice:

"This is our last stop, ladies and gentlemen. We will now proceed with no further delay to our destination!"

There was a loud from the people in the car. Some of the dead men and women cheered and stomped their feet, as if they were kids going to an amusement park. Others, like the man in the suit and tie, looked like a prisoner on the way to the electric chair. They knew what was waiting for them.

With horror, Rick looked out the window, and saw the sign had changed.

It no longer said "Piccadilly" - it said "Purgatory".

And the train started moving again, pulling out from the platform, plunging into the darkness.


End file.
